Stay In Touch
by A Traveler
Summary: Michael writes a letter to Sara. Vague spoilers for Season One Finale. MS. Ch 5 is up Veronica goes to find Sara before its too late! May 24Epilogue added. This story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Warning: May have some vague spoilers for the Season One finale that aired in the States last night, although this is definitely my own imagination. Don't read if you're trying not to learn anything about it!_

The leaves were full and green and the nip in the air that had been so relentless had softened to a warm caress. Summer was waiting at the doorstep and Sara felt the first stirrings of a thaw in her own frozen soul. This place she found herself in was becoming more familiar with each passing day. The sameness of the routine, the blankness of the walls and spareness of its furnishings both soothed and numbed her. It was here, out on the lawn, in the presence of the sun and the soft breeze and the living greens all around, that she could really begin to reassemble the non-functional, shattered bits that were once her private world.

Sara pushed back the long, constricting sleeves of her T-shirt and bared her arms to the kiss of the sun. Her arms looked unnaturally thin and pale,she noted, even to her apethetic eyes. She settled herself on the grass and absently plucked at the velvety green spears.

"Sara Tancredi, mail," a nurse called from across the green expanse. She turned and looked in the direction of the hospital doorway. Curiosity briefly coursed through her. Sara had received the occasional phonecall from her father since she'd been involuntarily committed to the rehab center, but he never wrote. And there wasn't anyone else who would write to her, except... no, she would never hear from him again. She'd served his purposes and it was over. There was on one else. No one.

The loneliness she battled constantly threatened to overwhelm her in that moment and she craved a hit. The desire came out of nowhere and was almost crippling. She craved the sudden release that would chase away the pain and leave forgetful euphoria in its wake.

Sara jumped up as if a bee stung her and headed for the nurse with deliberate strides, as if to distance herself physically from her dark desires.

The nurse placed a letter in her outstretched hand. Without looking at it or acknowledging the nurse, Sara turned and crossed the grounds again, seating herself on a bench on the exact opposite side of the expansive yard from her earlier position. Only now did she look down at the letter she held so tightly.

The address was written in a handwriting she didn't recognize nor did she recognize the return address, a post office box in Yuma, Arizona. She flipped the letter over and over, building up the courage to open it. She finally ripped open the flap and removed the contents with trembling fingers to see what mystery lay within.

The letter was two pages long, handwritten, front and back, in small, very legible script. Unable to put off her curiosity any longer, she flipped to the signature on the back and gasped.

"Love always, Michael," stared up at her.

Him. She realized sadly that she'd never seen enough of his handwriting to recognize it. What else didn't she know about him? Swallowing hard and frantically scanning her surroundings for a waste can, Sara briefly considered not reading another word but simply throwing the pages in the trash. In the murky, hellish days since her near death from an overdose, Sara had struggled to make sense of her descent into relapse. She hadn't seen it coming, but it had nearly destroyed her. It had destroyed her career, her freedom, and possibly her future.

Funny, she thought with a bitter smile, it hadn't destroyed her father's career. No, in true Tancredi style, he'd taken the circumstances of her wrecked and ruined life and crusaded against drugs using her as a poster child. His standing politically was stronger than ever. His relationship with his daughter, however, was in tatters. No matter, he had succeeded where it mattered most to him. He would soon be re-elected, if the polls held true.

"Love always, Michael."

She cringed. Sara had dared to believe in him, and in his feelings for her. For the first time in her life, somebody had actually seemed to care about her. She had believed the looks and the words they'd exchanged. And that kiss... the kiss was always right there, always hovering with velvety warmth on the frontal lobe of her consciousness. It was as if he saw her, the real Sara, when nobody else cared to look past the surface. When she had realized that he was one of them, using her, callously, for his own ends, she had crashed. It was the last straw. Nothing mattered any more.

Sara sighed, exasperated at herself. She hadn't even read the damn thing, and here she was spiraling down into the pit of despair once again. She should really throw it out. Look at the state she was already in, just looking at the signature.

She couldn't throw this out, not in a million years. Michael may have used her, he may have manipulated her, but she was the one who'd chosen to smash her life into a million pieces. She was the one who stuck the needle in her arm. Nobody else. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't blame that on him. And in spite of everything, she couldn't deny that this was what she'd been waiting for, hoping for.

She turned to the beginning and began to read.

"Dearest Sara,

I hope this finds you well. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wish I could see your sweet face one more time. Once you told me to cut the charm act. Please believe that I'm not trying to charm you or get something from you. I just need to know that you're okay. If you want to hate me, that's understandable. I hate me, too, for the things I did to get Lincoln free. Actually, that's not completely true. Getting Lincoln out of there, alive, was my reason for being in prison. It was my only goal. And most of the things I did, I'd do again.

Except for what I did to you. If I could do it all over again, if I'd known the beautiful person I would find behind those prison walls, I'd have figured out another way. Anything, to keep from hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you, you have to believe me. The more I got to know you, the harder it became to remember what I was in there for in the first place. I'd never met anyone like you. You found a way past my defenses, Sara. Nobody's ever done that before.

I saw a newspaper article right after the breakout about you, Sara. The article said you'd OD'ed and were in the hospital in critical condition. I tried every way I knew how to get more information, but I only found out you were still alive last week. One of Veronica's friends is a nurse in your rehab hospital. She says you've been there since you got out of the hospital. Sara, I was as good as dead until last week when I heard you were still alive. I had assumed the worst. I wanted to die myself.

Please, please write to me and tell me how you're doing? I'll understand if you don't. But I'm hoping that you'll drop me a line. If you don't it's okay, like I said. Just knowing you're alive in the same world as I am is enough. You're an incredible woman, Sara Tancredi. Don't ever let anyone tell you different.

Love always,  
Michael

Sara sat, staring at the letter in her lap, for a long time. She cuoldn't possibly answer this, she shouldn't open that door again. It had almost killed her the last time. How was anything different now? He was still a fugitive, and would always be so. He'd shown his nature by using her, manipulating her, playing with her affections. Hadn't he? Why would she want to open it all up again?

She held the letter to chest, as if the words within could somehow seep through her T-shirt straight into her heart. Her precious memory of Michael's face, sharper than it had been in months, floated before her mind's eye. Deep down, she understood why he'd done the things he'd done. It hurt, but she understood. And now he wasn't asking for anything. He just wanted to know how she was doing.

Was it really too far a stretch to believe that he was actually concerned for her?

Would it really be that awful of a thing to do to write back a sentence or two? She wasn't committing anything. She would just be letting him know how she was. This was no big deal, she told herself, in spite of the adrenaline-charged feeling in her stomach that warned her a cliff might be lurking just around the next bend.

Sara stood and stretched out her legs. She walked slowly back towards the front door. Walking to the nurse's station, she smiled at the girl on duty.

"Can I have some stationery and a pen? I'd like to write a letter."

_A/N: I know I have another fic going, but I HAD to deal with last night's episode! I might continue this; can't decide if this is a good place to end or not. For those of you who haven't seen "Go" yet, I don't think this gives too much away. Actually, so many plot twists were left hanging it would be hard for me to give ANYTHING away! C'mon, FOX, throw us a bone!_


	2. Chapter 2

Michael jogged across the concrete foundation to the team of construction workers who were valiantly holding up a framed wall. Four other men were attempting to fit an adjacent wall into a groove and both structures were flailing in the hot Mexican wind. Michael ran up alongside the men and began shouting. The foreman began translating for him in Spanish. 

"A few more inches this way. That's it, a little more, keep it steady...okay, now drop it in..."

The wall frames clicked together at a perfectly planed right angle and the pieces fell into a groove on the foundation with a resounding snap.

"Okay, nail it all down," Michael ordered. The foreman immediately shouted the command in Spanish.

"Michael, you done over there yet?" Michael turned towards his brother, who was approaching from the other end of the constructon site.

"Just about." The two were dirty and dripping sweat. They were both glad to call it a day. A few minutes later they were headed towards the place they now called home, wiping perspiration from their brows with dirty bandanas.

"I swear I have sand inside my underwear today. That wind blew dirt in my face all day long."

"The wind blows dirt in our face all day, every day," Lincoln reminded him with a laugh.

"True," Michael grinned, then spit forcefully on the ground when sand blew into his mouth. Lincoln laughed louder and ducked when Michael playfully swung a fist at him.

They reached a crossroads of sorts and turned down a road that quickly became a winding footpath along the side of a steep hill. The valley spread out below was sparsely inhabited. An azure lake sparkled enticingly in the distance, at odds with the arid desert surrounding its shores. At the top of the barren hilltop stood a cluster of one-room houses, small but neatly kept. They headed for their own and were greeted at the door by Veronica. She was holding a big bowl of something covered with a cloth and looked like she was going somewhere.

"Sucre and Maricruz have invited us to dine with them," she grandly informed the two dirty men, pointing at a bungalow across the way. "But I think maybe you should make a pit stop at the well first," she suggested, wrinkling her nose at their earthy odor.

"Tell Sucre and Maricruz we'll be there shortly," Lincoln said. He grabbed two towels and a bar of soap and threw one of the towels to Michael.

"Oh, I went to Yuma today to check the mail. You have a letter, Michael," she said mysteriously.

"Really?" Michael's heart sped up.

They'd opened the Arizona post office box because it couldn't be traced to their present location in Mexico. It wasn't too far a drive and Veronica could easily get back and forth across the border for them. They didn't receive much mail of any kind; the way Veronica's eyes were dancing Michael knew this was something unusual.

"Let me see," he demanded, holding out a sandy, sweat streaked hand.

"Wash up first," she directed him.

Michael nodded wearily and walked to what they called the well, actually a hand pump emerging from the ground in the common area between the houses. He was already splashing water on his arms and face when Lincoln caught up to him.

"So. Who do you think wrote to you?" Lincoln emphasized the 'you', getting in another teasing dig at his little brother.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. He finished washing his face and arms and backed away so Lincoln could have a go at the pump. While he was wiping his now clean face, he answered.

"About a month ago I wrote a letter to Sara," Michael explained.

Lincoln, soap up to his elbows, turned to stare at Michael, trying to remember the circumstances.

"That friend of Veronica's, that nurse. Did she take the letter for you?"

"No, but she gave me the mailing address. I sent it through the mail. I wasn't really expecting her to answer, though. I figured she pretty much hates me now."

Lincoln went back to his bathing. "Maybe," he blubbered through soap and water, "you should read the letter before you decide whether she hates you or not."

"Yeah. Hey, I'll be over to eat with you and Sucre in a while."

Returning to retrieve the letter at last, Michael burst through the door of their cottage and looked around eagerly. Veronica had already gone to deliver her part of tonight's meal to Maricruz, but she had left the letter in the middle of an otherwise empty table. Michael snatched it up and slipped past a hanging blanket on one end of the room that provided him some privacy for sleeping. He lay down in his hammock and carefully opened the letter.

_"Dear Michael,"_ he read.

He stopped and looked at the ceiling, wondering if he could stand to read on. She would probably tell him off for writing to her in the first place. After what he'd done, he had no right to expect anything from her.

'Okay, Michael,' he lectured himself, 'just read. You deserve whatever she says. Stop putting off the inevitable. At least she wrote back. It means she's alive and well enough to write a letter, right? Right. Okay. Okay.'

Michael picked up the letter from where he had let it fall over his heart, tensely pursed his lips and read on.

_"Dear Michael,_

_Thank you for your letter. I've read it over and over. You ask how I am doing. I've been here in this center for several months. I'm doing okay. But I don't know when I will be permitted to leave. Addicts who allow convicted felons to escape as part of their relapse event aren't looked upon with leniency."_

Well, that certainly sounded like Sara.

_"I'm not sure what happened. I don't remember much from the day of the OD. I remember feeling alone, so alone. I felt like a piece of garbage. Garbage is what's left over. It's what people throw out when they've used up the good stuff. I felt used, and useless. I knew I would lose my job, maybe even be put in prison myself, because of what I'd done. It would be obvious to even the densest guard at Fox River that I'd left the door unlocked on purpose. I realized that night that I had ruined everything by making a 'mistake.'"_

Ouch. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, her pain threatening to reach out from the page and engulf him. How he longed to hold her, to tell her how far from garbage she was, how precious, how rare. Although he doubted she'd let him touch her. She did hate him, it was pretty plain. As soon as he could bear it, he read on.

_"I have to tell you, I was surprised to hear from you. When I figured out all that you had done to get Lincoln out, I assumed I was just another piece of the grand scheme. I thought it was all an act, even the day when I asked you if it was all an act and you said 'no'. And I despised myself for falling for it even when I knew what it was._

_You are an amazing man, Michael Scofield. I know only a small part of what you orchestrated in order to break out and I'm speechless. I can only begin to imagine what else you did to achieve your goal."_

Yup. She hated him. So far, this was what he'd expected to hear from Sara. It was what he deserved. He'd done her wrong. If he could take it back, he would, but it was too late now. Michael forced his eyes down to the next paragraph.

_"Speaking of... I want you to know that I understand why you did what you did with me. I won't pretend it doesn't hurt. It does. It hurts a lot. But I understand. Lincoln is a very lucky man to have a brother like you. I'm glad you succeeded in saving your brother's life. He deserves to live and I smile when I think of him out there somewhere, basking under the same sun that I am. You did that, Michael. You gave him back his life and that's an incredible gift."_

He sat up a bit. Did he detect some slight warming here?

_"You gave him back his life... but at a high cost to others."_

Hmmm. Maybe he'd just imagined it.

"_If I know you at all, I know that weighs heavily on you, probably too heavily. Take care, Michael, and don't let it pull you down into the darkness. I know how easily that can happen. I don't want it to happen to you._

_You didn't say anything about how you're doing, or what you're doing. Are you okay? Is Lincoln okay? I think about you all the time. It would put my mind at ease to know what's happening there. Write and tell me what's going on with you. If you want to write back, that is._

_Take care, Sara"_

Okay, it was a start. She wanted to know what was going on with him. That didn't sound like she hated him, at least not completely. She was hurting still, and his heart ached almost unbearably from renewed awareness of her pain, but strangely, something had been freed by her words. He didn't understand it exactly, but he knew now that it wasn't over between them. And that gave him a thin glimmer of hope where before he had harbored no hope whatsoever. It was the best feeling he'd had in a long time.

Michael rolled off his hammock and rummaged through the house until he came up with a piece of paper and a pencil. He pulled out his pocketknife and whittled the end to a keen point. He briefly thought about going to join the others for dinner, but decided against it. He wasn't hungry anyway, not now. Not until he'd written another letter to Sara.

_TBC soon..._

_A/N: I hope you like my version of where some of the convicts ended up...I got the idea from a comment Sucre made to Michael during the escape... _


	3. Chapter 3

She'd written back. It was more than he'd ever dared to hope for. But their relationship, if it could even be termed as such now, was still fragile and tenuous. He was afraid that if he reached out to her, the shimmering, floating connection between them would pop like a soap bubble and disintegrate. How could she ever look at him and not remember the lies and half-truths he'd told her in order to manipulate her into carrying out her part in his grand scheme? He died a little inside every time he thought about what he'd done to her, what he'd had to do. He lay on his hammock, pondering what he could possibly write that would even begin to move them past all of that. The shadows grew long and deep all around as he lay frozen in tortured indecision. 

When they'd first arrived in Mexico, Michael had been an emotional disaster. He'd seen Sara's picture on the front page of a newspaper somewhere on the run and hadn't had time to read the article. But the headlines had burned a brand into his consciousness:

**'Governor's Daughter in Critical Condition After Apparent Suicide Attempt.'**

Lincoln had practically carried him away from the newspaper vending machine and forced him into the car. For days afterward, Lincoln and Veronica had watched over him and taken care of him as he slowly worked his way down from the paralyzing overload the knowledge had created in his already overworked senses.

When he was little, Lincoln had been the only one who could help Michael cope with the panic attacks he had often experienced, symptoms of his LLI. His older brother had learned how to help Michael center himself and cut off the dizzying, relentless bombardment of the world around. Slowly, with the added help of a psychiatrist, Michael had all but put those type of attacks behind him. It was only when something overwhelmed him emotionally that the door holding back the swirling demons would begin to swing ajar once again. The newspaper headline had loosened his already frayed hold on his self control. The first few weeks in Mexico had been a nightmare for Michael.

Lincoln had again started up the centering techniques he'd invented for Michael during their childhood. Michael had rallied, but they both knew his hard-won equanimity was a house of cards. For that reason, Lincoln was never far from his brother's side.

Veronica had tried to help when his problems had started, but after Michael's third rampage, she'd moved in with Sucre and Maricruz for a few days. Although Veronica had left out of fear, it had helped Michael to have less contact with people and thus less information to process during those difficult days of spiraling in and out of emotional chaos. Lincoln alone had understood, and stood by him, unfazed.

Eventually Michael had settled into an uneasy calm but the others continued to watch him closely. None of them heard anything more about Sara's fate, but the light had slowly faded from Michael's eyes. He went about the tasks of his new existence with mechanical efficiency, but the peculiar energy that had so defined Michael was absent.

Then Veronica had contacted her friend in Illinois. She'd asked her to wire money from Veronica's savings account. The two had been friends for long enough that the nurse just laughed.

"What kind of trouble you in now?" she'd teased, but agreed to send the money as Veronica had directed.

They'd talked.

"Did you hear about the Governor's daughter?" Veronica's heart had sped up, but she replied calmly.

"I read she OD'ed."

"Well, she survived. And she's here at the center where I work. Her father had her involuntarily committed. They've labeled her 'criminally insane'."

"They can't do that without due process," Veronica protested.

"Well, they did. I guess her father pulled the strings. She's here for life, I'm guessing."

"Wow. Is she okay?" Veronica's voice betrayed something her friend was quick to pick up on.

"I guess so. Why, you know her or something?"

"Actually, yeah. A friend of mine down here knew her pretty well. He'd, uh, he'd like to get in touch with her. Please, Susie?"

"Geez, V, nobody's supposed to know she's here... gosh, I shouldn't have said anything. Keep this quiet, alright? I can't afford to lose my job."

"Susie, please. Who are we going to tell? We're not even in the country. It's real important to my friend."

"Okay, look. She's not supposed to receive any communication from the outside. Write to me and I'll see that she gets it. I'll make it look like I sent her a card or something. The nurses do that a lot."

"What's the big secret?" Veronica wanted to know.

"I'm not sure. The guys at work think she's an embarassment to her father. They say she'll never leave the hospital the way he's worked it because he wants her kept out of sight."

"I'm glad he's not my old man," Veronica mused.

"No kidding."

Veronica had brought back the news she'd learned and an address. The news had brought the light back into Michael's eyes. Just knowing for sure that Sara was alive gave him something to hold onto. But his dark edges returned, too. Renewed hope brought renewed anxiety, care, and hardest of all to bear, guilt. Lincoln had renewed his vigilant guard over his troubled brother.

Michael rolled out of his hammock with a groan and dropped the pen and as yet blank paper on the table. He put a kerosone lamp on the table and lit it, then turned up the wick. With renewed determination, he sat down and began to write.

_"Dearest Sara,_

_I got your letter today. It was incredible to hear from you and know that you're okay. I read your letter over and over. I closed my eyes and imagined that I heard your voice saying each word._

_It was hard reading some of the things you wrote. Let me tell you that you are the farthest thing from garbage I know. If what I did caused you to feel that way about yourself, then I'm so sorry. You have to understand how incredible you are. You're the most incredible person I've ever met. Lincoln is alive because of you, Sara. I can only hope and pray that gives you comfort and doesn't cause more pain. _

_You asked how I'm doing here. Lincoln, Veronica, and I hooked up with Sucre and Maricruz here in Mexico. We found a place to live that's pretty good. We bought four vacant houses outside of town and we've been slowly making them livable. Two are in good enough shape to live in now. I'm living in the same house with Linc and Vee, and Maricruz and Sucre have the other one. They have a baby now. He's cute and he's loud. Soon the third house will be finished and I'll move over there. We're going to rent out the fourth. Some day._

_It's a good life here- basic, but good. Lincoln, Sucre and I have jobs working for a construction company in town. I do odd jobs on days when the crew doesn't need as many workers. The pay is lousy but we make enough to put food on the table. When we need anything more, Veronica goes to Yuma and gets money out of one of our accounts. But generally we find we don't much need anything extra._

_The days are hot and dusty and the nights are cold. After doing time in prison, life doesn't need a lot of frills to be great. I love being able to take a walk in the desert whenever I feel like it. I go to work like a regular guy. I can watch the sunset from my front porch. Well, it's not really a porch yet, but we're working on it._

_There's something about the desert, the heat rising from the sand, maybe, that magnifies the sun at sunset and intensifies the colors. Then, when the sun goes down, the stars come out way brighter than up north. I want you to see it. I want to see you. You'd love it here, I know it. Do you think you could ever forgive me enough to see me again?_

_Miss you,_

_Love always, Michael"_

Michael read his effort over and over, becoming increasingly frustrated. His halting, unrevealing remarks didn't come close to what he ached to impart. His clumsy request for forgiveness seemed false and inadequate to his critical eye. He had almost decided to rip it up and start over when Lincoln burst through the door, concern evident on his features.

"You didn't come to eat," he ventured, sounding more like he was asking a question than making a statement.

"Is there anything left over?" Michael asked, feeling the first pangs of hunger.

"Veronica fixed you a plate. She's bringing it over." Lincoln continued to stare at him, trying to figure out what was going on.

Michael felt the stirrings of guilt. His name had obviously come up in conversation over at Sucre's. They were worried about him again. And not without cause. He knew he'd given them plenty of grounds to be concerned about him over the past few months.

"Are you okay?" Lincoln asked gently.

"Yeah, Linc, I'm okay. I was just... writing a letter. To Sara."

"Oh. So, what did her letter have to say?" Lincoln was watching him curiously.

"You can read it."

Michael reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a carefully creased piece of paper. He handed it to Lincoln and gestured toward the lamp on the table. Turning up the wick, Lincoln sat down and unfolded the letter. While he was reading, Veronica entered and handed Michael a plate.

"I thought you might get hungry eventually," she explained with a tender smile.

"I'm hungry now, thanks, Vee," Michael answered. "Sorry I didn't come over."

Veronica saw Lincoln reading the letter and pointed.

"How's Sara?" She asked, trying to sound casual.

"She's good, I guess, as good as a person can be locked up in a mental hospital. Her letter was... well, I was really glad to hear from her."

Michael sat down across from his brother and took a mouthful of meat and beans.

"Veronica, when are you going back to Yuma?" He asked as soon as he'd swallowed.

"Actually, I was going back tomorrow. I'm expecting to hear from the appeals court so I'm going to be checking the mail a lot until I get those documents."

"Can you mail this to Sara for me? You still have your friend's address, right?" Michael had decided it wasn't worth the agony of writing another. This one would have to do.

"Yes. Sure, give it to me." Michael handed it over.

"Goodnight, then," he said abruptly. His plate sat, barely touched, on the table where he'd left it. Lincoln handed the letter he'd been reading back to Michael with a nod, and Veronica pointed to the food.

"You done?"

"Sorry," Michael said ruefully.

"S'okay." Veronica watched him retreat to his sleeping corner, concern for him blossoming in her eyes once again.

Veronica got back from Yuma the next evening at the same time that the men were wearily plodding home from another day on the construction site. She waved from afar and picked up her pace so as to join them on the path along the hillside. She looked upset.

"Something wrong, Vee?" Lincoln called to her, waiting until she caught up to his side. He swung a sweaty arm across her shoulders, expecting her to duck out playfully and protest. But she didn't. She snuggled into his embrace, dust, sweat and all. Michael walked several feet ahead of them.

"I didn't mail Michael's letter. I don't know what to do with it. The latest news on Sara is that she died in the treatment center last month," she whispered to Lincoln, careful to not be overheard by the younger man walking ahead of them, whistling to himself and looking almost happy for the first time in a long time.

"What?" Lincoln hissed.

"I saw it in the paper. That's not all. Governor Tancredi has been appointed to the Vice-Presidency. He's campaigning against drugs and using the death of his daughter as an example of why his policies are so important. I don't get it, Lincoln. Michael got that letter from her yesterday, which means she was very much alive a few days ago. He's got to be lying, but what kind of father lies about something like that? I tried to call my friend who works at the center, but I couldn't get her. I had to leave a message."

"She won't reach you when she calls back unless you're in town."

"Yeah, I know, the only place I get reception is when I stand on the stone wall outside the mercado. And point the phone north. And that's only when it's not raining. But she'll leave a message and I can check it when we go into town tomorrow. What should I tell Michael in the meantime?"

"Nothing. Not a thing, Veronica. Not until we know more. And stop looking like your cat just got run over, or he'll know something is wrong." Lincoln pulled her closer and they meandered along holding one another.

"I'll try," Veronica promised uncertainly. She smiled with fake assurance when Michael glanced back at them. He rolled his eyes and turned back around, convinced for the moment that they were just canoodling.

"Try harder," Lincoln commanded her.

_TBC!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: (Better late than never, I always forget this thing) I do not own Prison Break or receive money for writing this stuff. But reviews are free (hint!)_

_A/N: I have another fic on hold (Long Road...) because this one's holding me hostage- Here's Chapter 4..._

Sara choked back tears and kept running. She ran through the dark alley behind a department store and out onto a four lane street. The traffic was fairly heavy and she was honked at more than once as she dodged and darted across the highway. Once she gained the safety of the far sidewalk, she glanced behind to see if she was being pursued. Seeing nobody, she turned and continued running, keeping to the shadows, until she found a secluded fire escape. The stairs led up to a partially open door a few floors above the street.

With a gulp, she decided to take a chance that this was the temporary refuge she was seeking. Willing her legs to stop trembling, she ran as fast as she could up the steps and peered in the door. It led to an empty hallway. She ducked in and followed the interior pathway for a few feet.

Finally, she'd found what appeared to be an unlocked storage room. She went in, shut the door behind her, and wedged it with the first box she could drag over. Feeling like she'd finally earned the right to stop and catch her breath, she collapsed into a ball on the floor and tried to control her breathing.

The events of the past two days played through her head like a bad movie. She couldn't quite believe that only two days had gone by; it seemed like weeks. Sara sat up and leaned against the wall, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, trying to discern what to do now.

Her Dad had shown up two days ago, finding her outside on the grounds where she so loved to walk each day. He'd seemed edgy and anxious. Two men she'd never seen before had waited by the entry for them to finish talking.

He told her she was being transferred, and that she needed to get her stuff and come with him right away. It was a secret. It was for her safety. Sara had protested, but as usual, her father had prevailed and she soon found herself in her room, packing her belongings. She didn't have much at the hospital; she hadn't been there very long. Michael's letter lay on the desk where she'd laid it. She had picked it up and carefully put it into her back pocket.

The letter. Sara hurriedly felt her back pocket to ensure herself of its presence. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the comforting sound of crackling paper in the pocket under her fingers. Somehow just touching it made the dark and damp all around recede a bit. She pulled it out again and read the return address, even though she'd committed it to memory.

Yuma. Maybe she could go to Yuma. Assuming she could get out of the city and travel for hundreds of miles with no money, no resources.

Sara shook her head in exasperation. How had she ended up in such an impossible situation? Her mind drifted back to the day before.

After she had pocketed Michael's letter, her Dad and his two companions had taken her and her small travel pack to a van waiting at the entrance. Strangely, there had been nobody around to check her out or say goodbye. Sara had felt the first inklings of unease at that point. She'd asked to go to the ladies' room before they left, and being men, the three of them had exchanged uncomfortable glances and inevitably allowed her to go back inside.

A nurse had been watching her from the window and approached her as she entered the ladies' room.

"Take this," was all she'd said, pressing a piece of paper into her hands. She'd seen the nurse around once or twice, but didn't know her name. Sara had stuffed the scrap in her pocket next to her letter. It had seemed odd at the time, but Sara was already so confused by her father's unexpected arrival and announcement that she was being moved elsewhere that she hadn't given the slip of paper a second thought. Until now.

Sara reached into her pocket again and found the slip. She pulled it out and unfolded it. There was a phone number on it. Nothing else.

Confused and too tired to think, she decided to just keep that until she could make sense of it. She put the paper and the letter safely back in her pocket and walked to the door. Listening from her side, she finally realized she would gain no further insight without screwing up her nerve and actually opening the door.

She reviewed all that had happened since the moment in the van when she'd realized her father wasn't there any more and she was alone with two strangers. She'd been put in the back seat, where she quickly realized the van's door locks had been removed. The driver took the van around to a back alley several streets behind the hospital and had then stopped. The second man had climbed into the van with her and looped a blindfold over her face and tied her hands behind her back. That was the point at which she'd gone berserk.

Sara smiled in wonderment at herself as she remembered the unbelievable strength she'd suddenly been possessed with. The prison boys would have been proud of her, she thought smugly. She'd kicked and viciously swung her head until she'd connected with her captor's head with a sickening crack. Yes, it had hurt her, but it had hurt him more than her. She'd knocked him out and wiggled past him to climb out the door. Her blindfold had loosened and fallen from her eyes during the fray, and she'd managed to untie her wrists soon after. The man she'd attacked had only had time to partially tie the cords anyway before she'd gone ballistic.

Somehow she'd gotten away. She'd been running ever since.

Carefully, so as not to make a sound, Sara pulled the box away from the door. With a deep breath, Sara turned the door knob and peered fearfully out into the hallway. All was still quiet. She slipped out into the dark hall. She walked towards what she assumed was the back of the building, looking for a way out that would hopefully not be observed. She'd find her way out of the city, somehow. She'd go to Yuma. What she'd do once she got there, she hadn't figured out yet. Right now, the post office box number scrawled on the envelope in her pocket was all she had to connect her to Michael.

For the remainder of the night, Sara sneaked in and out of the shadows of the city streets and alleys until she was so exhausted that her legs were trembling. She hadn't had time to fully recover from her brush with death, and her weakened condition was slowing her down. She had reached the outskirts of the city now and was becoming more confident with each passing minute that she had succeeded in eluding her pursuers. Needing a rest, and feeling like it was finally safe to stop for a bit, Sara spied a pay phone on the edge of a gas station parking lot.

It took a few minutes of scrounging, but Sara found enough change to place a call and seated herself on the stool inside the booth with a sigh of gratitude. It felt so good just to sit down. Also good, the booth wasn't lighted, which gave her the comforting sense of being hidden from unfriendly eyes. The dark was her friend under the circumstances. It made it hard to read the number on the piece of paper she had retrieved from her pocket, but she was able to make out the numbers and dial. Veronica stood on the wall outside the village mercado and pointed her cell phone north. She was rewarded with a small ring and text on the display declaring that she had a new phone message.

"Finally, Susie called back," she exclaimed to Lincoln, watching her from below with a slight grin of amusement at her awkward balancing act. She pressed a button and listened to the message. Lincoln watched her eyes widen with shock.

"What?" he questioned while she was lowering herself back down to the level of the dirt road, his steadying hands bracing her forearms.

"That message was from Sara."

"Sara?" He exclaimed in amazement.

"Susie must have given her this number. We have to help her. She's in trouble."

"What trouble?"

"She ran away from the hospital. She's somewhere south of Chicago, on foot. She said she'd call back at 2 pm tomorrow."

"When did she leave that message?" Lincoln demanded.

Veronica checked the display. "Uh, 4 AM our time, this morning." She checked the time display on her phone. "So at 2 PM today she's going to call. That's an hour from now."

Lincoln jumped to his feet. "She'll be calling in an hour?"

"Yes, I think that's what she meant."

"I'm going to get Michael. You wait here for her call." Lincoln turned and jogged towards the road home.

"Hurry!" Veronica spurred him on.

It took Lincoln over 20 minutes to get back. Michael wasn't in their house. Lincoln finally went out in the middle of the square between the cottages and shouted impatiently for his brother.

"What's the problem?" Michael answered, stepping out of Sucre's house followed by Sucre and Maricruz.

"Michael, you need to come with me to town right now. I'll explain on the way."

Michael and Lincoln hadn't yet made it back to the mercado when Veronica's cell phone rang. She jumped into the optimal position, heedless of the looks of passersby. The ones with cell phones all knew exactly what she was doing anyway.

"Sara?" She answered the call breathlessly.

"Is this Veronica Donivan?" Sara's very much alive voice asked. She was hard to hear, however, with the heavy static that was troubling the connection.

"Yes, are you okay?"

"I need help. Please tell Michael that I need to get out of Chicago. I need to go into hiding." Her voice had quickly filled with the hoarseness of tears.

"Listen, Sara, you need to call this number." Veronica slowly gave her Susie's phone number.

"Who is it?" Sara asked, still crying.

"My friend Susie is a nurse at the hospital where you were recovering. She's the one who gave us your address. Call her and she'll come and find you. She'll help you, do you understand?"

"She might turn me in," Sara objected hysterically.

"No, I promise you Sara, she'll help you. She'll get you here, to us, I know she can. Please, Sara call her. Sara, can you hear me? Sara, answer me!"

Veronica had met Sara a couple of times and had pegged her as an incredibly controlled woman, intelligent, and icy cool under pressure. She was shocked at the degree of brokenness and desperation in the woman's voice.

There was no further answer from Sara, just static. A few seconds later, the phone connection clicked out.

"Let me talk to her," Michael pleaded in a rough voice, who was suddenly there, standing on the wall right next to Veronica, holding out his hand.

"The connection failed," Veronica informed him with a defeated groan.

He jumped down, still breathing hard from the frantic run to town. His eyes filled with bitter tears and he turned away, cursing and kicking at the dirt. He stilled when Lincoln brushed a calm hand down his arm.

"I gave her Susie's phone number. I've got to call Susie right now and make sure she helps Sara." Veronica, still standing on the wall, began dialing frantically.

She glanced down just as Michael looked up. His teary eyes pierced through her with tortured hope. He'd been through so much, Veronica thought. And now this. It was breaking his heart to know Sara was in trouble and yet completely beyond his reach.

"Susie? Is it you?" Veronica smiled encouragingly down at Michael, who was listening intently, watching her every move. She reached a hand down to squeeze Michael's shoulder. His muscles bunched up involuntarily under her touch, betraying his anxiety. He reached up and trapped her hand against his shoulder, grateful for her comfort.

"Susie, you have to do me a huge favor," she began. Michael slowly relaxed as he listened to Veronica spell out a plan to her friend. A plan that, if it succeeded, might actually result in him finally being reunited with Sara.

_TBC_

_A/N: Thanks to my reviewers, you keep me writing! I really appreciate the constructive comments and suggestions some of you have given me. I really want to improve my writing . So if you're reading this, review... please!_


	5. Chapter 5

Last time, in Chapter 4: 

_"Susie? Is it you?" Veronica smiled encouragingly down at Michael, who was listening intently, watching her every move. She reached a hand down to squeeze Michael's shoulder. His muscles bunched up involuntarily under her touch, betraying his anxiety. He reached up and trapped her hand against his shoulder, grateful for her comfort._

_"Susie, you have to do me a huge favor," she began. Michael slowly relaxed as he listened to Veronica spell out a plan to her friend. A plan that, if it succeeded, might actually result in him finally being reunited with Sara._

_What happened next:_

Michael waited with increasing suspense for Veronica to get off the phone. She talked for a long time, longer than Michael had expected, and sounded several times like she was begging or arguing. As soon as she hung up and jumped down from her perch on the wall, Michael closed in on her.

"What did she say?"

"She's agreed to help," Veronica was quick to assure the desperate man who had cornered her like a lion stalking its prey. "But she's afraid. She's heard rumors. She thinks the men who are after Sara are dangerous."

"You think?" Michael exploded.

"Well, she's afraid if she's gone too long from work it will make someone suspicious of her. She's afraid for her life, Michael," Veronica appealed to his sense of compassion. "She's helping Sara a lot by agreeing to go get her off the street and put her on a bus to Yuma. I'll go wait for her in the Yuma bus terminal."

"How are you going to get her back across the border?" Michael demanded. "What if the border patrol is looking for her already?"

"It's a possibility, Michael. I'll have to figure something out. But the odds are in our favor. They're not as vigilant with people going into Mexico as they are when you're coming back into the States. And I'm willing to bet that those men who are after Sara have nothing to do with official government channels. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get ready to drive up to Yuma. And you have a house to get fixed up in a hurry."

The bus ride from the tiny terminal, somewhere south of Chicago to Yuma, Arizona, was an overnight affair. Sara tried to sleep in the stiff, cramped seat she'd hunched into at the back of the bus, to no avail. She stared out the window for hours, worrying about the future, a shaky future at best. The only bright spot on the horizon was that it looked like she was going to see Michael again. But where that would ultimately lead her she couldn't imagine. She tried not to look too far into the future, but the endless bleak scenarios her overwrought mind kept morbidly dreaming up continued playing themselves out in depressing repetition.

The bus finally made a pit stop for fifteen minutes in the southern part of Colorado. The cafe where the bus stopped looked like something out of a black and white western movie. Grateful for the chance to stretch her legs, Sara carefully put on her hat and sunglasses and tucked her hair into the hat's rim. She walked into the cafe inconspicuously embedded in the midst of a throng of passengers. Counter service was all that was available, so she waited quietly for her turn to order a cup of coffee and a roll. While standing in line, her eye caught on yesterday's newspaper, thrown carelessly in the wastebasket by the wall. She was shocked to see a grainy picture of herself, dressed in her doctor's uniform at Fox Creek, blaring out of the newsprint. Trying not to stare, she tried to make out the caption under the picture.

"Vice-Presidential Candidate's War On Drugs Has Roots In Personal Tragedy," she managed to decipher.

Sara felt her heart jump. She was able to remain outwardly unaffected as she moved up in line and finally ordered herself some breakfast. Susie had given her some cash to make her trip comfortable. Carrying the coffee and roll in one hand, she surreptitiously walked back past the trash can and fished out the crumpled front page. She laid it under her food like a placemat. Anyone watching her would have thought that her only intention in retrieving the sheet of newspaper was to use it as a napkin of sorts.

Sara got back on the bus as soon as she could, the article carefully tucked under her arm. Once in her seat, she made sure she was not being observed and took another look.

"Frank Tancredi, Governor of Illinois and newly appointed running mate of President Caroline Reynolds, announced his drug initiative plan this morning, along with the tragic news of his only daughter's death from a drug overdose which occurred earier this week in the psychiatric hospital where she was being treated for drug-induced psychosis. His newly forged initiative to keep such a tragedy from happening in other American families has won him..."

Sara stopped, too sickened to read further, and crumpled the paper into a tiny ball in her hands as tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks. Dead! Drug-induced psychosis! She was confused, shocked, scared, betrayed, along with a hundred other feelings too painful to identify. What did this mean? Had her father intended to hide her away somewhere forever, with no chance of her ever being free again? Or were those men two thugs who had been sent to kill her? Either way, the enormity of her father's betrayal slowly crushed her with a degree of pain she'd never felt before, not even the night she'd been so low that she'd intentionally overdosed.

She turned toward the window and pulled her hat over her eyes, struggling to remain silent in the rolling bus even though a tortured scream was trying to work its way out from deep within her soul. Her knees worked their way up to her chest, and she sat curled in a ball against the window, eyes shut tight, a wet cheek pressed to the smeared glass while the bus rattled and rolled down the highway.

If she'd had a vial of morphine at that moment, she wouldn't have entertained a second's hesitation.

Lincoln awoke in the dark of the pre-dawn stillness to the sharp sound of an axe rhythmically cracking against wood. It took him a minute or two to clear his sleep-fogged mind and realize who was splitting firewood at this hour.

Michael.

The curtain separating his sleeping area from the rest of the room was thrown back, and his hammock was empty.

Lincoln swallowed a groan and reached over with a seeking hand to Veronica's side of the bed. It was cold. It took him a moment to remember she wasn't there. She'd left for Yuma last night and had probably spent what was left of the night on a bench in the Yuma bus depot. Lincoln stretched and got up to go check on the insomniac out in the yard.

"Michael, what are you doing?" He yawned as he approached the woodpile.

"Couldn't..." Crack... "sleep," ...crack... crack.

"Feel like some coffee? Let's go inside, Michael. I'll fix you some breakfast."

Michael ceased in his efforts, breathing heavily and sweating so hard he was wet from the roots of his hair to the rim of his workpants.

"I'm almost done," he panted, giving Lincoln a quick glance. He looked physically exhausted but his eyes were alight with a desperate fire.

"You're done, Michael, you're done. We now have enough wood to last us until the middle of next winter. Come inside."

Michael shrugged and swung at the chopping block one last time, anchoring the axe in it with a heavy thud. He padded through the yard following Lincoln, his elevated breathing slowing by degrees. Grabbing a kitchen towel from the back of a chair and swiping at his face, chest and arms, he sat down heavily at the table.

Lincoln stoked the stove and put on some coffee to perk. He handed Michael a bowl of plaintains, a crock of butter, a loaf of bread and a knife. Joining him at the table, he cut himself a healthy slice of bread and slathered butter on one side.

"Come on, eat," he urged Michael authoritatively. With a nod, Michael followed suit and cut himself some bread.

"Veronica should be back sometime this morning, I reckon," Lincoln offered conversationally.

"Yeah," Michael grunted.

"Sara will be glad to see you," Lincoln probed.

"Maybe, maybe not," Michael answered after a moment's pause. "Maybe she'll see me as the reason she's in so much trouble in the first place. I pretty much ruined her life."

Lincoln turned to his morose younger brother and leaned on the table in front of him. "Michael, how do you feel about Sara? Really?"

"How do I feel about her?" He parroted back, looking dumbfounded.

"Yeah. Is she just an obligation? Do you feel guilty, because you used her and you asked her to do something- which she did all by herself, by the way- she didn't have to leave that door unlocked for us- so now you're going to beat yourself up over it for the next, say, 20 years? Or do you want to see her again because she's important to you?"

"Well, I- I-"

"Do you love her?" Lincoln all but exploded.

"I love her so much it's all I can think about," Michael immediately answered with burning intensity.

"Ok, good, that's what I wanted to know," Lincoln responded, turning away and stuffing a huge chunk of bread and butter into his mouth. He chewed for a while, then swallowed, ignoring Michael's outraged eyes burning a hole in his back.

"Because, if you love her, that's all that matters. All that other stuff? You'll work it out. It's past, it's over. Unless you keep dredging it up and wallowing in it."

"Lincoln, what do you want me to do?"

"Stop feeling guilty. I think, when that girl gets here in a few hours, she's going to need you. If all she's sees is all that garbage you're carrying around with you, she's not going to see the love. And that's what she's going to need more than anything else. Her own father put out a contract on her, for Pete's sake."

"Maybe that's not what it looks like."

"He put out a contract on her," Lincoln repeated, emphasizing each word. "Hell, Michael, I thought you were the genius and I was the dumb one."

"I don't know anything anymore," Michael admitted wryly. He grabbed the coffeepot off the stove and poured them each a cup. They drank it black, sipping the hot brew slowly, savoring the bitter bite. It was still dark outside.

"Well, since we're awake, why don't we go see what else needs doing in the third house?" Michael suggested.

"Okay."

"We haven't talked about this, but I know you're expecting Sara and I to live together in that house. I understand, you and Veronica haven't had much time to get things sorted out between yourselves with me right there all the time. But Sara may not want to just shack up with me right away. Like you said, we have some things to work out. Pretty big things. We've never had a conversation outside the prison walls, for instance. So I was thinking."

"Am I going to like this?"

"You and me live in your house for a while, and Veronica and Sara stay here. Kinda girls' dorm- boys' dorm."

"I didn't think I was going to like it." Lincoln said with a frown. "But you're right. As usual."

"It won't be forever. I hope."

Veronica had no trouble finding the bus station. It was in a run-down section of Yuma, which was dingy in general anyway. She found the board announcing arrivals and departures and realised she had a couple hours to kill. It didn't take the tired woman long to curl up on a bench and doze off.

She woke up with a start and jumped up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and trying to wake up fast. A throng of people had filled the station in the few hours since she'd been asleep. She jogged over to the board.

Sara's bus had arrived just a few minutes ago.

Looking around sharply, Veronica began combing the seats and benches for slim, auburn haired women, but came up empty handed. Frustrated, she went back to the board to see which bin Sara's bus had parked in. Turning purposefully towards the right one, she almost mowed down a thin woman in her path, hair invisible under a stocking cap, shades hiding her eyes.

"Veronica?" The woman whispered.

Veronica stopped and looked closer. She was thinner, and pale, and dressed in baggy clothes, but it was Sara. Veronica smiled triumphantly.

"Let's go," was all she said by way of an answer. She grabbed Sara's upper arm and steered her out of the terminal as quickly as the swaying woman hanging on her arm could go. Something wasn't right, but Veronica didn't have time to stop and find out what it was. They walked so quickly they were essentially jogging,first down the street where the bus terminal was located, then up the next street, and lastly into a supermarket parking lot.

"This is mine," Veronica announced. They climbed into the car and Veronica was on the road in seconds. She waited until she'd cleared the downtown area and was on the highway south before she took a good look at Sara. Sara had pulled off her hat and glasses and was sitting silently in the passenger seat, stringy hair fanned out on the head rest, staring out the window.

"Sara?" Veronica asked softly, glancing at her now and again as she drove. "You okay?"

There was no answer.

"Honey, what's the matter?" Veronica's caring voice finally reached into Sara's trancelike state.

"I'm sorry. Thank you for coming to pick me up. The last few days have been just awful. I'm being ungrateful."

"Think nothing of it, Sara. I'd- we'd- do just about anything for you. Lincoln is alive because of you."

"Funny. That's exactly what Michael wrote in his letter."

"Because it's the truth. Hey, there's some water bottles and cookies behind your seat, if you're hungry."

"Thanks. Water sounds good." She turned and grabbed a water bottle.

"You want one?" She asked Veronica.

"Sure."

There was silence for a little while, the two women sipping their water and watching the scenery speed by. The empty sand stretching out on either side was punctuated by an occasional saguarro cactus.

"I saw an article in the paper saying you were dead," Veronica finally said, interrupting a long silence.

"Yeah," Sara whispered. "Surprise! I'm still alive," she added bitterly.

"Why did that article say that?" Veronica was bursting with curiosity as to what was going on, but afraid to wade into the pain so evident on the doctor's face.

"I haven't figured it out yet, but I think my father sent some men to kill me," she finally admitted. "Maybe I had become too much a liability for him politically. Do you think we could talk about something else? How's Mexico?"

"Uh, sorry. Mexico's- hot, dusty, very... actually, I kinda like it. I've been running back and forth to the States a lot, trying to keep Lincoln's appeal moving along. So far, I haven't been caught."

"Are you a fugitive too, then?"

"Technically, no, but I disappeared the same night as the prison break. Nick kidnapped me but then he let me go. I'm pretty sure he saved my life. He was taking me to the guys that John Abruzzi works for. They would have killed me, I know it. My name is likely on more than one list."

"Wow, Veronica. You must have been frightened. I know what it feels like, now, to be hunted. I was so scared. I can't seem to make sense of what's happening to me."

"Don't try, hon, not yet. Look. We're almost to the border. I'm real sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to get in the trunk." She pulled off onto the side of the road.

Sara had gone from being relatively calm to once again, a tense, trembling mess. Veronica opened the trunk and pointed at the bottom.

"There's a hole under there big enough for you to curl up in. I'll put this mat over the top. Just hang in there a little longer, got it?" Veronica patted her on the arm and helped her get in. She was worried about Sara's mental state. How much more could the girl take? Climbing into a dark trunk and allowing Veronica to lock her inside could upset her obviously fragile self-control.

Veronica approached the border just under the speed limit, working at making herself appear completely normal. The border patrols had several cars stopped this morning, but as luck would have it, she was waved through after a quick check of her passport. She drove for several miles before pulling over to get Sara out.

"Sara?" She asked worriedly as she helped her climb out of the stifling enclosure she'd been holed up in for over half an hour. Sara was covered in sweat, pale and shaking. Her eyes were far away. She made no attempt to answer Veronica, chilling Veronica to the depths of her soul.

"Come on, let's get you fastened into the front here," she soothed. She guided the ashen woman into the front seat and gently fastened the seat belt around her as if she was a small child. There was no response of any kind from Sara. She seemed catatonic.

"Michael's gonna kill me," Veronica muttered as she resumed the drive towards their new home.

It was noon when Veronica finally pulled into the little village near their home. She wound her way through the town square, past the mercado, and onto the road that led to their property. Her heart was beating fast as she thought about the reunion that was now eminent. With Sara sitting next to her like a zombie, she didn't know what to expect. She wasn't sure either Michael or Sara would be able to navigate through the murky waters ahead without a whole lot of help and support.

She parked in the open space near the well and honked. Everyone was beside the car in a few seconds. Michael got there first, jogging around to the passenger side. He opened up Sara's side of the car and leaned in to help her out. Veronica held her breath. Their moment had finally arrived, but she had no confidence that either one was ready for it.

Michael's hand.

It was his hand, Sara recognized, through the fog of her emotional cauldron. There were his long slender fingers, and his wrist, leading to the swirling, delicate lines of the tattoo that she knew so well. Were she to look further, she would observe how the intricate patterns crept up his arm, down over his back and torso, over his strong muscles and flat stomach, and down the other arm, marking him forever as the unique and beloved man she now needed so much. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she forced a word out of her shackled mind, past the fortress of her frozen lips, out into the sunlit air.

"Michael," he heard her whisper faintly. He almost didn't hear it. Her lips barely moved; her eyes were half-shuttered. He reached around her, unfastened the belt, and gently pulled her out of the car into an eager embrace.

"Sara, sweet Sara," he murmured in her ear, although all those around him overheard and smiled soppily at each other.

"You're going to be okay. I swear, you're going to be okay."

Michael reached an arm down and caught her up by the legs, carrying her towards the house. She clung to him, thin arms wrapped around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck. He nuzzled the top of her head and kissed her hair. He carried her into the cottage that Lincoln and Michael had been working on for days. The door slammed shut behind them.

Lincoln turned to Veronica.

"Good work, kid," he praised.

"Thanks," Veronica returned. She gestured toward the cottage where Michael and Sara were now holed up together.

"That girl is messed up, you know," she offered.

"Like we aren't," Lincoln reminded her. "They'll be okay. They just need some time."

Sucre came up behind them. "They are two birds, with broken wings. Each of them has what the other needs. Together they will learn to fly again."

"Ooh, aren't you the poet," Lincoln teased. "I hope you're right," he added more seriously. "I hope you're right."

Somehow, the 'girls' dorm- boys'dorm' idea never got off the ground. It was hours before Michael emerged, and then only for a few minutes. He knocked briefly at the doorjamb of Lincoln's hut before barging in to raid the pantry. Lincoln and Veronica, awoken from a much-needed nap by Michael's clattering around, watched in amusement as he gathered up bits of food, plates, a few utensils and a bottle of wine.

As he flew back out of the door, he turned and flashed them a smile, the first real smile they'd seen on Michael's lips since the break out.

"Hey, Veronica," he called to her, pausing on the threshold and juggling his stolen wares.

"Yeah?" She answered groggily.

"I love you."

"Shut up," she teased him as he danced out.

"I take it things are going okay over there," Veronica guessed.

"I knew they would," Lincoln assured her, smoothing a hand over her back. "Go back to sleep."

"Gladly." Veronica flopped back down on the bed and dozed off almost immediately. Smiling to himself, Lincoln got up and went for a walk outside in the desert.

His heart was too full to sit still.

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and thanks to my wonderful reviewers who kept me encouraged enough to keep at this! I tried to make this fic more about the community that bonds the PB characters together rather than just the Sara/Michael love story (which is definitely worth writing about, I just wanted to explore the emotional bonds they all share.) I was especially intrigued by the Michael/Lincoln connection and tried to delve in there a bit. I hope you enjoyed it. I think there may be at least one more chapter/epilogue to this story down the road (I have an idea about what Sara ends up doing in Mexico. But now I'm going to get back to work on my other fic, 'Long Road To Freedom'._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Okay, so the epilogue's longer than some of the chapters. It's also mushy. You have been warned._

"Dr. Sara, Dr. Sara," the voice of a little girl, about five years old, rang in Sara Tancredi's ears as she came out into the waiting room to call in her next patient.

"Rosita," Sara smiled, admiring the little girl as she twirled about. She was the picture of health this morning, where just last week she'd been suffering from measles and Sara had feared for her life. Something in the doctor's heart swelled with satisfaction. She loved this job like no other she'd ever had.

"Come on in, Rosita, let's have a look at you," Sara suggested brightly. Rosita's mother shyly followed them in. As Sara made a quick check and proclaimed the little girl well, she prepared a shot.

"This will keep Rosita from getting other dangerous diseases that many children die from," Sara explained as she administered the vaccination. "Bring her back in six months for another shot, though, okay?"

"Si, Senorita," the woman smiled warmly. Her brown eyes strayed to her child and Sara was warmed by the depth of love and devotion she saw there.

"Adios," Sara bid them.

As she turned her back to clean up for the next patient, a very familiar, deeply masculine voice from the doorway interrupted her routine.

"Can a gorgeous clinic doctor take a lunch break? I brought you something from the mercado."

Sara spun around to drink in the pleasing sight of a tanned, curly haired former convict, muscles bulging and barely contained by a ripped, sleeveless shirt, his intricate tattooes practically glowing from the fine sheen of sweat he wore. His chin and cheeks were covered with dark stubble; he hadn't shaved for a few days, but that wasn't uncommon for Michael's deliberately laid back lifestyle. Sara slipped off her lab coat and stethoscope and smiled with delight.

"Are you asking me out?"

"I'm asking you to dine with me at the best restaurant in town," he joked. There was no restaurant in the dusty desert town. But Sara and Michael had a favorite flat-topped rock just up the road from the clinic where they often ate their lunch. It boasted a rare commodity: shade. A couple of scruffy pines that looked to be about a thousand years old had grown up and over the rock in twisted ropes, providing a few patches of genuine respite from the hot desert sun.

Sara and Michael wandered slowly out of the clinic and down the street, holding hands and whispering to each other. Sara was first to climb onto the rock, with Michael providing a supporting hand. Michael clambered up next to her and sorted out their various food items. Watching him, Sara's mind wandered back to that first day in Mexico, when she'd been so lost. Michael had been her pillar of strength ever since...

_"Sara, what's this?"_

_She could still hear his voice asking her, full of concern and sadness. Michael was holding the crumpled ball of newspaper, only he'd smoothed it out and was reading the article. Sara had turned over on the soft pallet Michael had for a bed, facing the wall, trying to shut him and everything else around her out in the cold. It hadn't worked; she should have known even then, on that first day of her new life, that he wasn't going to let her just slip away into the darkness._

_She knew he'd finished reading the article when he gently lowered himself onto the bedding behind her. He'd slid into place against her stiff back and his arms had encircled her so tenderly that she'd felt a catch in her throat._

_"Sara, I'm so sorry," he'd breathed over her face, her neck. She'd felt his hand on her, starting at her shoulder and warmly gliding down her arm. Then back up to her shoulder. Softly, like velvet, his hand had soothed her, up and down her arm, until she'd broken. Choking on her sobs, she turned and pulled him to her with animal strength and hid her face in his chest. He had laid there for a long time, just holding her and whispering to her in that husky, mesmerizing voice that made everything better. Finally, she had begun to speak, haltingly, punctuated with trembling sobs, but it had begun to come out._

_"My father sent those men to kill me," she managed to force out. Just the thought knotted up her insides with paralyzing agony. "He and I have always had a difficult relationship. But I never, not in a million years, would have thought he-"_

_"Sara," Michael had interrupted her. "Don't. Don't go there."_

_"How can I just not think about it? My own father wanted to throw me away, to be rid of me! He hates me that much!"_

_"There's more going on here than you can see, Sara." Michael's hands were frantic, insistently stroking her cheeks, her forehead, her hair as if he could physically wipe away her despair._

_"What do you mean?" Sara looked devastated and confused._

_Michael swallowed hard. He gazed at the distraught woman in his arms and his heart felt like it would burst with love for her. He doubted very much that she was ready to hear all that he knew. But if he withheld anything, she'd sense that she was being lied to again, and that might be worse than any of the information he had to offer._

_He plunged in from the beginning, relating the whole conspiracy, at least as much as he understood of it. He slowly led her to the possibility, no, probability, that her father was in it, in too deep._

_"I doubt he had a choice, Sara. He's a prisoner now, too. This cover-up is big, bigger than you can imagine. It goes all the way to the President. And your father is now her right-hand man."_

_"What can be done?" Sara asked. She looked so small and overwhelmed; Michael closed his eyes against the rush of emotions she engendered in him. He wanted to be true to everything he knew; he didn't want to lie or mislead her ever again. But it was so tempting to just assure her that everything would turn out okay._

_"Veronica has some potential leads in the case. But it's not hopeful, Sara. Two of her witnesses were killed as soon as she brought them forward."_

_Sara shuddered and turned away._

_"Sara?"_

_"Leave me alone. I need some time. You don't know what it's like to have your father so involved in a conspiracy that you don't matter anymore."_

_"Actually... I do."_

_"What?" Sara was shocked into turning back around to face him._

_"My father isn't dead. He surfaced a few weeks before the breakout, when Lincoln was in that accident. He told Lincoln that he's been in hiding all these years for our sakes. He's been involved in this conspiracy for decades, Sara. Lincoln's involvement was no accident. I told you, it's big. We have no idea yet just how big. But I want to find out. I want to help put a stop to it, so nobody else gets hurt."_

_"What about you? What if something happens to you in the process?"_

_"It doesn't matter, as long as the people who framed Lincoln, who destroyed my family and yours now, too, are exposed. Justice is all that matters."_

_"You're wrong. You matter. You matter to me, doesn't that mean anything?"_

_Sara sounded unsure, like maybe it really didn't matter. Her self-worth had been completely crushed by recent events._

_"It means everything," Michael told her, deeply touched. "C'mere."_

_He'd pulled her against him then, and his mouth had found hers with shattering totality. He hadn't given it up for an impossibly long time._

Sara closed her eyes, remembering that first time. Michael had been everything she'd ever dreamed of. Every touch, every kiss, had communicated his love for her in the profoundest of ways. She'd had no doubt since that day how deep and true his feelings for her ran.

Afterwards, he'd brought her food and wine, odd tidbits of crackers, cheese, preserves, a few stale corn tacos, and whatever else he'd managed to scrape up in a hurry. He confessed to having raided his brother's pantry and they'd laughed about it.

He'd been taking care of her, and she him, ever since.

She opened her eyes and looked at him where he lay, lounging under the twisted pine, splayed out gracefully on the rock with her. His eyes were closed and a contented half smile danced on his full lips.

She loved him.

His eyes opened, almost as if he'd been able to feel her staring at him.

"You okay?" He murmured easily.

"A little tired, I guess. I was thinking I'd close the clinic early and go home."

Michael perked up. "Yeah?"

He sat up. "How tired did you say you were?" He was such a man.

"Not that tired," she answered coyly. "But I could use an hour or two of rest. Bedrest."

"You know what, I'm pretty much done for the day, too. How about I walk you back?"

His smirk lit up her cheeks like red beacons.

"I'd like that."

_Fin (I promise)_


End file.
